


So I Will Comfort You

by Thysanotus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, M/M, Slash, The Quidditch Pitch: The Changing Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-29
Updated: 2005-10-29
Packaged: 2018-10-27 07:30:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10804647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thysanotus/pseuds/Thysanotus
Summary: Ron's Unrequited desire for Viktor Krum leads to a moment for Ron and Harry





	So I Will Comfort You

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

A/N: Written as a prequel to Tapestry of Want which I cowrote with xylodemon. This was most graciously beta'd by darkasphodel (who suggested the brilliant title), and sioniann had a quick look at it for me too. It is written in the second person, but don't let that put you off.

 

Ron has his arm draped loosely over your shoulders. He hasn't stopped talking since you left the stadium. You've heard about the way Krum dived for the Snitch right in front of your seats six times, and about the way he flew around the stadium after the Bulgarians won, seven.

"But did you really see him, Harry," he keeps saying, the words an alcoholic fog in your ear. You sigh.

"I was sitting right beside you, Ron," you say. "You were grabbing my arm every two seconds." You roll your eyes. His enthusiastic tugs have jarred your arm and you hope you'll be fit for Quidditch next week.

You're both too drunk to apparate back to the youth hostel, so you find the closest tube station. The air is cold, nipping at your nose, sending tingles through your fingers. Ron lolls against the tiled wall, red hair blazing against the chalky brown tiles. You glance back at him from the edge of the platform as he fishes in his pocket for something.

The rails spin silver and bleak below you. It would be so easy to do it. Ron's too drunk and too far away to stop you. You could just - let go. Step off. It would be easy. Swallowing is hard, with a dry mouth. As the thunder of the train echoes through your head, you step back, a metallic taste, the taste of cowardice, flowering in your mouth.

You help Ron up from the bench, and you both stagger onto the train. There is a seat under the window, and Ron collapses bonelessly, pulling you onto his lap as he falls. Uncomfortable, you try to get up, but he has locked his arms around your waist.

You can't meet the eyes of any of your fellow passengers, crimson staining your cheeks as you rest your head against the cool glass behind you. Ron murmurs something, his voice blurred and too shallow for you to understand. You twist around, looking at him. His eyes are closed, pale eyelashes resting on his cheeks, flushed pink. The curve of his ear is almost translucent, and you swallow hard.

Feeling dizzy, you close your eyes, tipping your head back to rest on the window, but the rocking of the train sends your head juddering across the smooth glass, slipping onto Ron's shoulder. His jacket is rough and warm under your cheek, and you know you will have an imprint of corduroy lines across your cheekbone when you lift your head. Right now, though, it feels too heavy to lift safely, and the world is spinning dangerously. Instead, you close your eyes and give in to the gentle rocking of the train.

Exiting at your station, you wobble up the stairs together, blood throbbing along the lines on your cheek in the cool air, matching the throbbing in your scar. Ron puts something in your hand, closing your fingers tightly around it, giving them a final pat before letting your hand go.

In the orange pool of light under the closest streetlight, you consciously release your curled fingers, examining the object on your palm. It gets up on its feet, pacing on your palm. The fragile figure is perfect in every detail, and Krum's thick eyebrows draw together to scowl at you as you squint at him.

Ron is striding up the street ahead of you, the ends of his Bulgaria scarf flapping, hands in pockets, red hair flaming as he moves from one pool of light to the next. The air burns your nostrils as you breathe in, and you think again how easy it would be.

The hand holding your wand trembles as you hold it up, squeezing your eyes shut. You wonder absently if it hurts to do this to yourself. The light, uneven pressure of your wand shuddering on your temple is painful. Your scar feels ready to split open, uneven clots of blood and pus spilling out across your skin. Taking another deep breath, enjoying the shrivelling cold, you begin to say the words.

"Avad - "

A sharp pain on the still-open palm of your other hand forces your eyes open in shock. You glance down.

The plastic figurine is grinding its broom into the flesh of your palm. Shaking your head, clearing your thoughts, you look up to see Ron, waiting for you under the next streetlight. You can tell from here he's frowning, shoulders hunched, eyebrows almost meeting above his nose. Slipping your wand back into your pants pocket, and the figurine into your coat pocket, you hurry to catch up.

Ron slings his arm back over your shoulders, gesturing expansively with his other hand.

"Thought I'd lost you for a minute there, Harry," he says, and a shudder runs down your back.

\--

The youth hostel is old, the paint peeling from the door. The stairwell smells of boiled cabbage and sulphur, the carpet crackling underfoot. As you close the door to the dormitory behind you, you collapse against it, a sudden wave of tiredness seeping over you.

The bare bulb on the ceiling is temperamental, flickering on and off, until the room looks like one of those blue light discos Dudley used to go to in the school hall. You switch it off, and your eyes slowly adjust to the vaguely orange light filtering through the cheap net curtains.

Ron is stripping off, his back to you, and you slowly realise that your gaze is sweeping up and down the curve of his back, over his arse, down his thighs as he steps out of his underpants. He turns around slowly, and even in this dim light you can see the hunger in his eyes. You begin to wonder if he really is as drunk as you thought he was.

Slowly, he crosses the sticky carpet towards you, and you're pressing yourself back into the door, rolling your eyes back, terrified that he's going to touch you and you'll fuck this up beyond repair.

He slips one hand under your shirt, cold splayed fingers above your bellybutton, twisting the other hand in your hair as his lips meet yours, and that's not cold at all, it's warm. When his tongue touches yours, the heat spreads through your entire body, and you think you might have made a funny whimpering noise. If it wasn't for the door behind you, you think it entirely possible you might have fallen, and shit Potter, stop analysing this, this thing and do something.

\--

Ron's fingers tangle in your buttons, and he curses quietly as you giggle.

"Fuck it," he slurs, lunging for his wand. He overbalances, and falls, taking you with him. You both hit the carpet, his cock pressing against your belly, and you freeze. What now? Something squirms underneath you, and you shrug off your coat rapidly.

Ron grins lopsidely, swishing his wand at your nether regions. Before you can say anything, you're naked too, cold and exposed.

You pull a blanket off the bed, throwing it over the two of you, and Ron sighs approval, returning one cold hand to your stomach, while the other slides lower, tucking itself between your legs.

His lips return to yours, but distractingly nipping, moving towards your ear, blowing in it, little hiccuping giggles while his hand wraps around you under the scratchy blanket and you bite down on your lip.

"Was thinking about this all night, Harry," he mumbles, voice raspy with cold air and too much Firewhiskey. His hand slides a little faster.

"Watching Krum, riding that broom. Thinking about you sitting next to me, how you look onna broom."

You gasp, running your tongue over the imprint of teeth in your lower lip. The blood in your mouth tastes coppery and sweet, warm where the rest of you is cold.

"His hands, Harry, rubbing around the broom." Ron's thumb dips into the moisture at the tip of your cock, and you jerk, the motion of his hand smoothed. He licks his other hand slowly, eyes never leaving yours. "Those hands running around you, not the broom. Stroking. That mouth sucking you in." There are two hands on your cock now, and you shudder, closing your eyes and breathing hard.

"Sucking you down. Watching you. His tongue, snaking around you." Your breathing is ragged now, your pulse racing.

"Imagine it, Harry. Viktor Krum on his knees in front of you, swallowing you to the root."

His hands are moving over you faster and faster as he speaks. As he swirls his thumb over the head once more, the comfort and familiarity of the motion is too much for you, and you come, jerking, into his hands, the sticky mess gluing you together in warmth.

As you choke in the cold air, taking deep, heaving breaths into your shaking body, Ron grinds into your hip, closing his eyes and panting roughly in your ear, broken fragments of words drifting through your opened mind.

"Vik-Viktor," he grunts as he comes, into his own hand, shaking the mess onto the floor behind you.

\--

The next morning is awkward, filled with darting glances and embarrassed silence. You cannot find your trousers anywhere in the dingy room, although your coat has been kicked under the bed, and Ron's scarf dangles from the air vent.

When you ask Ron where your trousers are he flushes red and mutters something about not knowing. You frown, and transfigure yourself a new pair from the curtains, although the revolting stench won't dissipate.

As you walk towards the apparition point, Ron grabs your hand, swinging it back-and-forth in the crisp air. Surprised, you look over at him, at his nose, pink with cold, his chapped lips, his bitten fingernails.

Perhaps there is something worth staying around for, after all. It doesn't have to be permanent, and if something better comes along, you think, as Krum crosses your mind. Well. You don't have to stick around forever.

In your coat pocket, the Krum figurine smirks.


End file.
